Tag Archives: love poem

Skips a Beat

I simply remember
all the things about you
and my heart skips a

Heck I don’t even know you
but my heart skips a

Well, I don’t give a
I just can’t feel my
In my chair, it’s hard to
At the table, it’s hard to

I like you without reason
like how I like the Christmas

Like I don’t need to wonder why
I like the bright summer

Like I don’t need to question
why I like the deep, blue

Like I don’t need to ponder
why you’re over and I’m

A simple look or
a meaningless smile
is all that it really takes
for my heart to leap a thousand

‘Cause your hair
is lighter than

Your voice
drowns out all the

You walk
as lightly as you

And when you do it all
I simply can’t help but

I wish I could tell you
to stop running after that
That guy who makes you
And who wastes your precious

I wish I could tell you
to give me a
like that night that we
with your hand in my

Yeah, I wish you’d give me a
to prove I’m a better
that I’m even better than Tom Cruise,
Brad Pitt,
Clint Eastwood,
and James Dean all

But never mind.

I think I’ll just grit my
Suck the air up and
Lest I die in my
The next time you stare at me
and my heart skips a

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The Rains

Aren’t lovers like the rain?
They come pouring from the skies,
heaven-sent.
They laugh for no reason
and fill the nights with screams.
They soak the world with fluids
and make everything
so

much

heavier

than they should be.
They make a lot of us sick,
revolted,
nauseated–
an unhealthy bunch overflowing with madness.

Aren’t lovers like the rain? Think about it.
Oh they don’t care about the earth;
clouds drop them like freed angels
and they fall,

fall,

fall without ever thinking,
ever stopping one bit

until they crash

and turn into mud. Filthy puddles in the torn ground.

And aren’t lovers like the rain?
They hurtle in one direction
then go down the drain.
They’re raging rivers and bursting creeks,
claps of thunder and roaring winds;
the drip,
drip,

drip

from a hole in your roof–
the annoying sound while you try to sleep.

You know, I do remember it’s like the rain,
the giver of life
and the most numbing of pains
like ice in your head as your chest burns
and the squish in your shoes
when you brave the stupid.

God it’s stupid.

So stupid it flooded my head and swamped my work!
‘Twas everywhere I looked, shit, even in my bed!
And all the basins were filled–no teacup to spare!
Nothing was dry for everything was goddamn wet.

And I bet

that I haven’t learned a thing from the rains.
Though I say I love the sun
it’s not what my skin seeks.
For as clean and dry as I aspire to be,
clearly, the storms know the real me;

for the heavens set the rule,

the lightning is the judge,

the droplets are the hearts,

and rains are lovers,

water is love.

And I

I’m nothing but

a sponge.

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Dear Santa Fella

Oh Santa, dear Santa, can I pray to you?
This Christmas–it’s abysmal!
I’m terribly blue.
My face is growing pimply
And it’s hopelessly lonely
Unlike yours that’s always smiling
And my, quite mockingly jolly!

So Santa, you busy man,
Please hear me out!
You have to start listening
Lest I grow some gout.
Oh Santa, dear Santa,
My heart’s in a rout!
But man if I don’t say it
I’ll just be singin’ it loud
And the neighbors, they’ll challenge me
To a mean Christmas bout!

Oh Santa, dear Santa, heed this holiday rant.
The only present I want
You can’t cram in your sack!
See, she’s 5 foot 3
And she’ll take up all the space
But dammit Santa fella
She’s the reason for this craze!

Just bring back my baby
You big, laughing, red ape
Ride to Coquitlam–
That’s in Canada, by the way.
Break through her apartment
(Just use the tools of the trade)
And get her out of there
Onto your sled–not a minute too late!

Her name is Cherry
She has the curliest hair
You cannot possibly miss her
She’s THAT unbelievably fair.
Grab her and go
Ride through the night!
Deliver my sweet baby
Back to my arms!

Back to my arms, back to my arms
Drop the lady beaming!
Oh I’ll kiss her and hug her
No mistletoe needed!
Then Santa, I won’t be
Just another dejected lad
Hoping Christmas ends
And be done with the fad.

Santa, bearded hope, I’ll be expecting
I’ll go maniacal for sure
If I don’t see her next morning
I’ll burn Christmas trees
Curse every bit of snowflake
And you better hide Rudolph
‘Cause I’ll turn him into steak!

Into steak, into steak
That Rudolph will be grilled!
So you may feel, you happy Nicholas
A bit of my grisly Christmas chill.
But don’t be afraid
Things need not get ugly
If you’ll just do your job
And bring me my Cherry baby.

So Santa, merry grandpa,
I hope everything’s clear.
Get your ass going
Give me some Christmas cheer!
I don’t need anything else
Only the girl of my dreams
The girl who used to shower me with love
Year after year after year.

But if you fail, though you’ve tried
Santa, I might take it in stride
Just don’t bring your reindeers
And their tasty reindeer hide
I swear I’ll have mercy,
Santa Claus dear
If, instead of the girl,
You bring me my beer.

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Your Enigmatic Psycho Stalker

It’s a bit creepy but
you know I’d like to surround myself
with snapshots of your every angle
like a suicide-bombing fanatic
kneeling in front of a perturbingly arranged, collage
altar with dried birds and shrunken heads
to honor you

you.

you.

you.

It’s just you, my darling, you
and I know that sounds like a song but
I can’t really help it ’cause it’s automatic
and symptomatic of an addiction for your
crazy antics
and
those goddamn
nighttime acrobatics.

And baby you know I love to play with these rhymes
like a poor man with his pocket’s dimes
dreaming of dames, kinda lame–
to tell you the truth–
if such dames
don’t give a damn
about him
and, more especially, aren’t really you

you.

you.

you.

Last night I drew your face and body,
an enigmatic psycho stalker
obsessed with a pretty somebody
he just met on the train home.
But girl I still held that mechanical quill
and scratched on that plastic slab all

night

long

so that I may ogle your face and body
and immerse myself once more in that
nasty fantasy of my own creation–
a particularly perverse ambition–
like a god masturbating
on his own people
’cause, well,
how can you blame the man–I mean the god?
He loves them so much,
probably sorta like
how much I

love

you.

you.
you.

You, darling, baby, honey,
my Madonna, Mona Lisa, that
goddess-turned-Medusa,

yeah, this poor man
with his pocket of dimes
has his fingers dashing across the keyboard
tonight like an employee
with a deadline
and a dead man
talking to a hangman
and a Hungarian humming a–

hang on.

I don’t really know
and, as you can see, I practically
never gave a damn about what’s going on

with all the pretty dames and their mushy games
in my life. And even if you throw me
a movie star who came from the stars
with a thousand suicide-bombing fanatics
making her the creepiest collage altars,
stalking her in her train home,
baby, you know I would–

there’s just no doubt

I would–

kick that bitch in the face

and I

would send her flying–
flying across the stars where she came from
and in her trail would be a beam so bright
that the darkest, loneliest
night–
during which my fingers dashed
across the keyboard and thoughts of your
face and body
(so ordinary and routinary
of me)–

will explode into a million hues
never seen before
and blind men will see and cry the color red
for the first time;
and auroras will pale before
the splendor;
and the furor will fragment
every fit of fantasy I sketched
on plastic slabs and
heartache throbs;
and that trail of light

will be visible to everyone,
to every creature,
every gremlin
in every fucking airplane

that’s left this fucking country behind

like me.

And darling, baby, honey,
you’ll see it

this creepy, crazy, kinda crappy message

that I

miss

you.

you.

you.

in the weirdest, most spine-tingling way

(silently writing coded poems with bad taste
at midnight)

truly

an enigmatic psycho stalker.

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Her Station

She’s there
in my burger

telling me how heavenly
this is,
this cheesy cheeseburger is,
when our bodies are already dried
from the liquor
and the blabber
of the night.

She lives
in the sooty streets
asking me how come I sing
every morning and
I won’t let up ’til we part

in the train station
where I kiss her cheek
a single
stolen
time.

She waits
still at the same spot
in the mall
where we used to wait
without any guarantee
that the other one will arrive
saying their sorrys,
prodding to hurry
to catch the evening TV.

She’s there.

I know

that she dreams of me
half a world away
as I live to sleep
and take my turn
come dark
to dream of her.

I see
her in every bare wall
and each busy page,
in all things the calendar
throws my way,
and in the nothingness
my eyelids and my bed
conspire to envelope me with;

and in my fingers she used to hold,
and in my feet she still adore,
in my face she used to measure,
and my eyes that used to behold

her. She’s there. She’s everywhere

there’s nothing and something and anything!
I lie and I walk and run in circles
along her planetary rings,
hopping and skipping in our dreams,
wishing and watching our favorite films,

making it to the next stop,
checking myself if I should laugh,
hoping we wouldn’t

drop

it.

‘Cause while she’s always a step ahead,
a safe distance where I can’t
smell her hair,
I know I have to keep on going,
keep on eating my cheeseburgers,
walk my way down busy streets
across malls, over calendars
and ’round planetary rings
once more.
And I know I have to keep on humming
the silent song in my chest
for I can’t rest
’til she’s back
in the train station
where I used to kiss her cheek
a single
stolen
time.

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Red Light

Bad
Bad

They have no idea
how bad it gets
when the office falls
silent
and I’m left to gaze ahead

at the beckoning abyss of the wall
dotted with sharp pins.

Bad
Gripping

Your face on my cell phone
eternally smiles, and I remember
I was there in that same room
on that same night,
as bald stray cats prowled the grounds,
and I
was seeing more — far more,
an entire more universe
sparkling with undiscovered stars —
than this

greasy

gadget

in my hand.

Mad
Seeping

It’s like a naive cancer or an earthquake,
or a tragic film no pleasant soul
would wanna see on a summer day
of flowers
and lovers
trailed by petals
and a hundred

bowed heads.

Bad
Bad

They have no idea.
Push me with a finger
and I’ll collapse on the bed.
I’ll stare and I’ll glare

at the abyss of the ceiling
where lizards hunt roaches
patiently.

No one has an idea;
not even you since you can’t pick my head.
Oh, darling,

you don’t wanna
pick this head.

It’s so bad that
one day, while crossing the street
among the usual crowd
between the typical jeeps,
inhaling that exact, same soot,

I think I might

stop
in my tracks

and refuse,
just shake my head violently
and refuse,

to cross
to the other side

so I can stay there forever.

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My Home

You are my simple life,
my home at the end of the road.
I’ve traveled far, hoisting the problems
of a million strangers on my shoulders.
Oh, I can’t wait
to lay them on your doorstep someday
and worry about them
no more.

On your small wooden table,
a cold glass of water awaits.
I’ll drink it with glee
while looking out your window
at the warring worlds
I’ll leave behind. Continue reading

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